Last December, I sat down on my parents’ bathroom floor as my friend described the events of the night before — the night she was raped. This was the girl who leaned over the driver’s seat to order for both of us at Taco Bell when I was anxious, always gave me the reclining chair during seventh period, and taught me about feminism. I was shaking. Her greatest fear was being raped.
That night was not our only conversation, because the effects of rape can’t be fixed by some sympathy and a good cry. A month later, I sat in a restaurant and listened to her talk about the physical pain she was still experiencing.